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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039948">In This Silence (I Need Shelter)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/casket4mytears/pseuds/casket4mytears'>casket4mytears</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Any cake on Christmas is a Christmas cake, Crawling through windows, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fire Escapes, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Music, Jackie Cook plays matchmaker, Logan and Jackie stan Lizzo, Midnight Confessions, Mutual Pining, Nurse Logan to the Rescue, Orange is the new pink, Sharing a Bed, These shoes aren't made for Fire Escapes, VMTAP20, We Found Love In A Pride Party</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:27:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,323</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039948</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/casket4mytears/pseuds/casket4mytears</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he sees her, she is gossamer and glitter, shimmering in the sunlight.<br/>The first time she sees him, he is an ocean wave, carrying her to shore.</p><p>Two strangers meet on a fire escape at the biggest party of the summer.  An insomniac reluctant to trust a world that has never shown kindness meets a wanderer in search of family, with a penchant for climbing metal staircases at midnight.  Their shared pain draws them together.  Will their refusal to confess their feelings tear them apart?</p><p>Created for Veronica Mars Trope-A-Palooza 2020 and inspired by Valley's "Push For Yellow (Shelter)"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>130</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Gotta Blame It On My Tropes Baby</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. In This Silence:  Logan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sometimes, it happens:  that spark.  That connection.  Two people connect.<br/>But what if they don't act on it?<br/>What if their hearts aren't built for confession?</p><p>This play on the midnight confessions trope unfolds in two parts - part two coming soon.<br/>This chapter references/quotes the following music:<br/>Xmas Cake - Rilo Kiley<br/>Forget December - Something Corporate<br/>A Long December - Counting Crows</p><p>Inspired by Valley's "Push For Yellow (Shelter)"<br/><i>"I need shelter<br/>Won't you help me?<br/>In this silence<br/>Why is something dead not killing me?"</i></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CCRRnkeAxXP/">COVER ART</a> by the incredible <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellowBobcat/pseuds/Marshmellow%20Bobcat">Marshmellow Bobcat</a><br/><br/><br/>The first time he sees her, she is gossamer and glitter, shimmering in the sunlight.</p><p>It’s Pride weekend, and the neighbourhood is bustling with festivities.  Parties rage on into the night, spilling out onto the fire escape.  Red Solo cups tumble from overhead, clumsily fumbled by giddy hands as bodies dance and sing.  He’s not big on parties, hasn’t been since high school, where he found himself uncomfortably on display, but on Pride weekend, he feels strangely at peace.  The community is welcoming, and he supports everyone in the right to love and feel safe and authentic in one’s skin.</p><p>It’s a battle he fought in his own way.  Maybe it’s why he relates.</p><p>All the same, any crowd overwhelms, and he steps onto the fire escape at Jackie Cook’s party after a rousing sing-along to Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts” and finds her there.  Her sheer dress is prismatic, the hemline skirting her knees in a jagged cut that reminds him of a fairy princess.  Her blonde waves are pinned back behind her right ear and streaked in a rainbow of colours, her cheeks shimmering in pinks and blues.  Her arms are glittering beneath the setting sun, dusted in diamonds.</p><p>She is breathtaking.</p><p>She glances up from the rail she’s leaning on and smiles.  “Nice shirt,” she says, sincerely.</p><p>He shrugs, tugging on his <em>Some People Are Trans – Get Over It</em> tee and smiles.  “My holographic dress was dirty from last night.  I made do.”</p><p>“Good thing.  Wearing the same thing as someone else to a Jackie Cook party?  Now <em>that</em> would have been embarrassing!”  She shifts along the rail, clearing space for him.  “Want to watch three lesbians eviscerate a drunk homophobe in the street?”</p><p>“You’re playing my song,” he replies, moving beside her.  “Logan,” he adds nervously.</p><p>“Veronica.”  She points to their right, shaking her head.  “He’s about to get a boot straight up his ass.”</p><p>Logan follows her gaze, watching the altercation unfold.  He knows two of the women arguing with the idiot in question; Carrie and Susan are his neighbours from across the hall.  The guy’s too sloppy to pose a threat, or he’d head down, just in case they need an extra hand.  Their friend unloads on him, shouting him off the block without a fist thrown. </p><p>“Bye, asshole!” Veronica chirps. </p><p>Logan steals a glance at Veronica, mesmerized by the faint freckles on her bare shoulders and the way she sways as if dancing to a song inside her head.  There’s a rhythm to her movements, a purpose.  He envies it.</p><p>“I haven’t seen you before,” she remarks, turning sideways.  “Do you live around here?”</p><p>“One floor up,” he replies.  “You?”</p><p>“Second floor, across the street.  Moved in a month ago.” </p><p>“That explains it.  I don’t go out much.”</p><p>Veronica frowns, planting her arms on the rail and leaning back.  “Why not?  Work stuff?”</p><p>“No… I guess I just… don’t feel comfortable at parties.”</p><p>“But you’re at one of the biggest parties of the year.”</p><p>Logan thrusts his hands in the pockets of his jeans, smirking.  “Go big or stay home.”</p><p>Veronica rolls her eyes and laughs softly.  “So, if I want to hang out with you, I’ve got to throw a huge party?”</p><p>He hesitates, gauging her comment.  Is it friendly banter?  A casual question?  Or is it the beginning of something?</p><p>“If you want me to show up at a party, it has to be impressive.  Or you have to be Jackie, because she never takes no for an answer,” he replies, glancing inside at his long-time friend.  “If you want to spend time with me, insomnia and an adventurous palate will do.”</p><p>“Noted.” </p><p>She walks away from him and his heart sinks.  Rejection stings, but he’s used to it.  He catches a glimpse of the large tree of life tattoo on her upper back as she passes him by and he files the image away as one more piece of a puzzle he will never be allowed to solve.</p><p>She slings one leg inside the window and pauses, turning back to him.  “Does adventurous palate apply to booze?  Because I hate drinking alone, and Jackie’s bar is well stocked.”</p><p>“I could drink,” he replies, unable to suppress a grin as he follows her inside.</p><hr/><p>One bleary eye opens at the obnoxious ringing on his nightstand.  The clock beside him reads 12:45 as his hand flails around in the darkness for his cell phone.  The display gives him pause:  Veronica.</p><p>There are few people he will pick the phone up for this late.  She is unquestionably one of them.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>
  <em>“Oh fuck, I woke you, didn’t I?  I woke you.  I’m sorry, go back to sleep.”</em>
</p><p>Both eyes open now as he rolls onto his back.  He hears a sniffle, the hoarseness in her voice. </p><p>“It’s okay, ‘Ronica.  What’s wrong?”</p><p>A long minute passes, the only sound a hitch of breath.  She’s crying, or trying not to, and he’s kicking off the covers because Logan knows where this night is going.  He needs to take care of her.</p><p>
  <em>“I found my mom…  and… she replaced me.  She just built a whole new life, Logan.  Had new kids and a new husband and forgot us.  Who does that?  Who does that to their daughter?”</em>
</p><p>“Fuck… Veronica, I’m so sorry.  That’s so selfish and cold.”  He’s on his feet now, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  “Where are you?”</p><p>
  <em>“Um… Thefirescape.”</em>
</p><p>Logan blinks hard.  “I’m sorry?”</p><p>
  <em>“I’m outside.  I… I didn’t know where to go.”</em>
</p><p>“Shit.  Okay, I’ll be right there.” </p><p>He gargles with mouthwash and heads out to the living room, finding Veronica on the fire escape outside his living room window.  Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, her eyes swollen and bloodshot.  She’s wearing her favourite oversized black sweater, the one she usually grabs when they take midnight walks around the neighbourhood on Fridays, or drive to the beach on windy days.  He pushes the window up and holds out his hand; she grips it tightly as she slips inside, falling into his arms with a soft sob.</p><p>“Shh, hey, I’ve got you.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, I just… I couldn’t be alone…”</p><p>“It’s okay.  I’m always here.”</p><p>He feels her tears falling against his bare chest and tucks her head beneath his chin.  He will shield her, protect her from any storm, bear her pain if possible. </p><p>They’ve known each other four months, but he’s already fallen for her.  If only he could tell her.</p><p>As her breathing slows, he leads her over to the couch, gently urging her to sit down.  Veronica rests her head upon his shoulder with a soft sigh, staring blankly ahead.</p><p>“I should have known she stayed gone for a reason.”</p><p>“You don’t need to blame yourself for her choices,” he offers.  “She left you when you were fourteen without a word.  Of course you wondered about her.  Of course you wanted to find her.  When you love someone, you want to know if they’re okay.  And when you’re hurt, you want closure.”</p><p>He knew this all too well from his own past.  His closure lay in a cemetery plot and five years of receipts from a therapist in Beverly Hills. </p><p>“I just… I know she had a drinking problem, when she left,” Veronica explains, swiping at her eyes.  “I thought maybe she didn’t come back because she was still drinking, or she stopped but she was too ashamed to come back.  And if it was shame, I wanted her to know I don’t hold a grudge.”</p><p>Logan holds his tongue—and a grudge for her.  Stealing thirty grand from your daughter’s college fund to flee your family after wasting another twenty grand on a rehab program you lied about completing is shitty behaviour in his books, worth at least a <em>little</em> grudge holding.  But this is where he and Veronica differ:  a part of her is still soft beneath her guarded veneer, still filled with optimism and a belief that the world is a place where the good guys will win.  Logan is cynical, a wounded animal kicked too many times to believe there will ever be a kind touch again.</p><p>At least, he was, until Veronica grabbed his hand inside Jackie’s apartment and insisted he dance with her, <em>because this is my song and I have to dance to it</em>.  Now… he is starved for her, always craving more.</p><p>“Did you talk to her?”</p><p>Veronica’s fingers pick at a ball of lint on his pajama pants.  “Yeah.  She said… she said it was like a fresh start.  That she’d screwed up too much to look back.  And she seemed to think that was enough, without even <em>apologizing to me</em>.  You know that she didn’t even apologize for the money?  For leaving me and Dad alone, barely getting by?”</p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>“Not one word.”  Her body shudders violently as she suppresses a sob.  “Not... one…”</p><p>Logan lifts his arm and pulls her close, gently rubbing her arm as he carefully chooses his words.  “If she can’t understand the pain she’s caused, then she doesn’t deserve to know you, Veronica.  She doesn’t deserve to know the woman you became in spite of what she did.  She gave birth to you, but she left.  Your dad?  He raised you.  He was there.  You have one good parent that loves you.  Hold onto him.”</p><p>She burrows into him, her breath hot on his skin.  Her fingers splay across his bare abdomen as she reaches across to embrace him.  Her touch scalds.  It brands. </p><p>He is used to pain.  He swallows it down, sipping the air.  A practiced habit.  <em>One, two, three…</em>  Only this pain, it isn’t a wound in need of a stitch.  His heart is cracked, and there is nothing that will repair it.</p><p>His silence is a knife, and he twists it deeper, every time they meet.</p><p>“Do you want some tea, maybe?” he suggests as she shivers in his embrace.</p><p>She shakes her head, the knot of hair atop her head bouncing side to side.</p><p>“What can I do that will help, Veronica?”</p><p>She sits up slowly, wiping her eyes one at a time.  The moonlight from the open window tints her skin a luminescent blue as she shyly reaches for his hand.</p><p>“Can I just… stay?  I can’t go home.  I can’t be alone in my head.  I can just sleep on your couch, if you have a blanket—“</p><p>“Yeah.  Yeah, you can stay.”  As if he will turn her away.  “The couch isn’t that great.  Why don’t you take my bed, and I’ll sleep here?”</p><p>“What?  No, I can’t do that.  I already woke you up and snotted all over you.”</p><p>“You’re my guest,” he insists.</p><p>She crosses her arms over her chest.  “You’re like, six foot five.  I’m tiny.  Couch-sized.” </p><p>“Veronica—“</p><p>“Well, how big is your bed?  Can we share it?  Or would that be weird?”</p><p><em>Weird</em> is not what he is thinking.  <em>Exquisite torture </em>seems an apt phrase.</p><p>“I made it weird,” she rambles.  “But I’m not taking your bed.  Couch or I’ll just… go home and… figure this out, somehow.”</p><p>She won’t figure it out.  He knows her.  She’ll stay up and cry all night, ruminating over family photos.</p><p>“It’s a king, and you didn’t make it weird, alright?  I just… didn’t think we were bed-sharing friends.”</p><p>
  <em>Ugh, now I’ve made it weird.</em>
</p><p>Veronica shrugs.  “I trust you not to, you know, fart on my pillows or draw dicks on my face while I sleep.”</p><p>He laughs in spite of himself, rising to his feet.  “Those are your criteria?  You need higher standards.”</p><p>Logan offers his hand and she accepts, allowing him to pull her to her feet.  She wobbles slightly and yawns, but she manages to keep up as they weave around the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom.</p><p>“D’ya got any spare jammies?” she asks.</p><p>“Not in size tiny.  Let me improvise.”</p><p>He digs through his drawer of workout clothes, tossing her a faded cotton tee and drawstring shorts.  She murmurs a thank you and he turns his back, willing himself to ignore the fact that Veronica Mars is getting <em>very naked right behind him</em> and then they are <em>sharing a bed</em> because he enjoys suffering.</p><p>“I’m decent!”</p><p>He turns around, swallowing hard.  <em>No, you’re beautiful.  And wearing my clothes.  Damn it, Logan, shut it down.  You’re friends, and she’ll never want anything more.  She would have given you a sign by now.</em></p><p>“I usually sleep this side,” he tells her, pointing near the window.</p><p>“Sure.  I’m just… thank you, Logan.  You’re so good to me.”</p><p>“Anytime, you know.  Just…. Anytime.”</p><p>They crawl into bed, Veronica tugging the covers up to her neck with a soft sigh.  He lies beside her, counting the tiny imperfections on the ceiling.  Scuffs, specks, dots of paint… <em>and oh god, she is rolling over and curling into his side.</em> </p><p>He is screwed.</p><p>“Logan?”  Her voice is so small, tissue-paper thin.</p><p>“Yeah, ‘Ronica?”</p><p>“Why doesn’t she love me?”</p><p>He hugs her closer, pressing his lips to the top of her head as lightly as he can—so light as to not be noticed.  The thought of a kiss, really.</p><p>“I don’t know.”  <em>But I love you</em>, he chokes on in the darkness.  <em>I do.</em></p><hr/><p>He’s lying on the floor, listening to music.  A playlist of holiday songs that are less than cheery.  No “Jingle Bell Rock” or “Marshmallow World” here.  No turkey dinner, although he’d had offers from Jackie, Dick and Veronica.  Just an oven-ready lasagna and a night of Jenny Lewis crooning about crying into her Christmas Cake and an old Something Corporate track about a December divorce.</p><p>Being an orphan at the holidays is awkward at best, painful most years.  Being an orphan whose holiday memories consist of carefully crafted photo opps and beatings by a drunken asshole of a father only worsens the anxiety of feigning normalcy as a dinner guest at someone else’s happy home. </p><p>He stabs his fork into the chocolate cake beside him and repeats the Rilo Kiley song, picturing Veronica at home in Neptune.  He hopes her dad is being extra kind after her mom’s rejection.  He hopes they went with the Cornish hens, like Veronica suggested.  It sounded absurd when she brought it up last week over a late-night run for Chinese take-out, but in the best way.</p><p><em>“We can each have our own mini-turkey!”</em> she’d exclaimed, swiping the last cheese wonton from his plate.</p><p>Over the speakers, Jenny Lewis confesses his heart’s secrets for him:  <em>“‘Cause what good is seein', if love's not lookin' back at you?  And what good is feelin' if my hands aren't touchin' you?”</em></p><p>He needs another drink.</p><p>As he stands up, he hears shouting on the streets outside.  Not exactly unheard of this week, of course.  Christmas is the second rowdiest time of year in this neighbourhood.  It’s only when he hears the fire escape rattling beyond the window that he pays the shouting any mind. </p><p>That, and it’s growing louder.</p><p>Peeking out the window, he’s stunned to see Veronica rounding the icy metal staircase two floors down, cursing and yelling with every step.  His hands shove the window up in a hurry and he leans outside.</p><p>“What are you doing?  You’re going to get yourself killed!”</p><p>“Ironically, on a lifesaving staircase,” she retorts.</p><p>“Veronica, head back down!  Buzz in.”</p><p>“I’m closer to you now anyway!”  She blows a curly strand from her face as she reaches the third floor and glares at him.  “You <em>lied </em>to me!”</p><p>“I… Well—“</p><p>“You told me you would be gone all weekend, Logan!  That you would <em>not</em> be alone!” </p><p>She makes it halfway to his window before black ice catches her up and she slips, grabbing frantically for the rail.  His heart stops as she slides and he is scrambling out the window, offering his hand.  She knocks it away in her fury, shoving a gift bag at him instead.</p><p>“Your present,” she snaps.</p><p>He’s an asshole.  Why didn’t he just explain it to her? </p><p>He brings the bag inside and moves back, giving her room to enter the apartment.  Her cheeks are wind-burned, her curls long and loose.  As she strips off her coat, he admires her forest green off-the-shoulder sweater and tight black jeans.  It’s just festive enough, but perfectly her.</p><p>Tossing her coat at his couch, she taps her foot expectantly.  Awaiting her explanation.</p><p>“So, maybe I wasn’t spending the weekend at Dick’s,” he admits.</p><p>“Look, if you didn’t want to spend Christmas with me, you could have just told me no.”</p><p>Oh, no.  He knows that tone.  That small, hurt voice.  She’s taking it as a personal slight. </p><p>“Veronica, it’s not you.”  He sits her gift down and takes a step forward.  “It’s Christmas.  It’s… not easy for me.  I just find it easier to… be alone.”</p><p>“Because your family’s gone?”</p><p>She knows fragments of the truth.  Logan’s never been one to overshare.  But maybe… maybe she needs to know.  Maybe he needs to risk exposure. </p><p>“Yeah, but that’s not all of it.”  He rubs his head, turning away as Gordon Lightfoot sings of winter nights.  “My parents weren’t good people, Veronica.  I don’t… I don’t know how much I can tell you tonight, but my mother was an alcoholic who sat back and watched while my father did terrible things.  He hurt her too, I get that.  I’ve forgiven her, but… Christmas wasn’t ever nice in my house.”</p><p>He feels her arms wrap around his waist from behind, feels her face resting against his back where his father’s belts used to land.  He exhales slowly, releasing another year’s worth of regret and anger as she murmurs apologies.</p><p>“You didn’t know,” he whispers.</p><p>“I felt it… A sadness lodged deep inside, like shrapnel.  Inoperable.” </p><p>His hands cover hers, squeezing gently.  “I didn’t want to ruin your holiday.  Normal families confuse me, and you and your dad, you actually care about each other.”</p><p>“Well, I care about you, too.  So next time, just… be honest.  I could have come here this morning and listened to your sad music with you before driving home.  Or come home earlier.”</p><p>He nods slightly, turning around to face her.  “Did you have the hens?”</p><p>“We did!  They were really cute and best of all, Dad couldn’t ship me home with the leftovers.  I have escaped a week of turkey soup and sandwiches.”</p><p>He manages a weak smile.  “That is a victory.  You may be onto something with your personal turkey gambit.”</p><p>“Did you want to open your present?”  A beat.  “You kinda have to, part of it is perishable.”</p><p>Her eyes twinkle with excitement and he finds himself intrigued by the maroon and gold bag.  “Alright.  Let me get your gift from the closet.”</p><p>“Hey!  We said no gifts!”</p><p>He pauses, glaring at her, then the bag.</p><p>“Well, you know I never listen.”</p><p>“And I do?”</p><p>She throws her hands up in the air and laughs.  “We’re the worst!  Speaking of, why is there a chocolate cake on your floor?”</p><p>“Christmas cake,” he deadpans, opening the hallway closet.</p><p>“Um, that is not a fruit cake.”</p><p>Retrieving the gold gift box from the top shelf, he kicks the door shut and returns to the living room.  “It is Christmas Day.  It is a cake.  Ergo, Christmas cake.”</p><p>“Technically, it’s past midnight and Christmas is over, smart ass.  Present time!”</p><p>She rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t stop her from sitting on the floor and shovelling a forkful of cake in her mouth before taking her present from Logan.  He settles on the couch with the gift bag she’s brought him, untying the neat gold bow holding the handles shut.</p><p>“Is it a pony?” she asks.</p><p>“If it is, he’s had a week in that closet like that, so we may have a problem.”</p><p>Veronica tugs the bow free and opens her box.  Logan follows her lead, opening his gift.</p><p>The perishable part is a tiny box of fudge—homemade, from the look of it.  Veronica has a secret love of baking.  He pops a square in his mouth and hums happily.  <em>Chocolate</em>.  Perfection.  Beneath the fudge, he finds a framed painting.  It’s a small canvass – 8 by 8 – featuring a gleaming tree of life partially submerged in the ocean.  The sun is rising behind it, a bright, tangerine.</p><p>“Veronica, this is beautiful.”</p><p>She glances up from her gift and blushes.  “You’re always admiring my tattoo, so I thought you needed a tree of your own.  A reminder that you may bend but you’ll never break.  Your roots are where you choose to plant them.”</p><p>She pulls aside the tissue paper in her gift box and gasps.  “Oh, Logan… This is… How did you know?”</p><p>How did he know she needed a replacement lens for her camera?  A little assist from Jackie, of course.  Veronica may have given up PI work for her father’s firm for law, but she still enjoyed photography.  She’d had a gear mishap late in the summer and hadn’t been able to afford a replacement.</p><p>“It’s too much,” she protests.</p><p>“Veronica, it’s not.  Not for me.”</p><p>“Logan—“</p><p>“Look, if you really feel I’ve overstepped, you could shoot new headshots for my corporate site.  I hate the ones on there.  Deal?”</p><p>She heaves a sigh of relief.  “Deal!  Thank you… this is amazing, truly.  My dad doesn’t know I broke it.  I didn’t want him to feel bad.  Money’s been tight since I moved out.”</p><p>“And now he will never know.”  He holds out the tray of fudge.  “Care to join me in a sugar coma?”</p><p>“Could be fun.” She pops a cube in her mouth, moaning happily.  “I’m amazing.”</p><p>“Yeah, you are.”</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, I said that out loud, didn’t I?</em>
</p><p>She sprawls out on the floor, in an eerie reflection of himself from just minutes ago.  Her hand reaches for the fork, spearing another chunk of cake.  Counting Crows shuffles up on the speakers and she hums along with the melody, waving the fork in the air as if composing a symphony.</p><p>“You may be onto something with this Sad Christmas Cake thing.”</p><p>“You think so?”</p><p>“Mmmhmm.”  She pats the carpet beside her.  “C’mon and finish this cake with me.  We’re having an Echolls-Mars Christmas now.”</p><p>Maybe the song is right; maybe he has a reason to believe that this year could be better than the last.</p><p>Setting his gifts aside, he pulls his coffee table aside and stretches out beside her, the chocolate cake between them as Adam Duritz sings softly.</p><p>
  <em>“All at once you look across a crowded room<br/>To see the way that light attaches to a girl<br/>And it's one more day up in the canyons<br/>And it's one more night in Hollywood…”</em>
</p><p>Logan turns his head and watches Veronica as she silently sings along.  He’s tone deaf, can’t sing worth a damn, but he knows she can.  He’s caught her singing to the radio on their random drives through the canyons.  So he sings, softly.  Just loud enough for her to hear.</p><p>Her head lolls to the side and she beams.  Her hand reaches for his, their fingers interlacing as she sets her voice free of its cage.  Her delicate soprano is a lullaby as they lay hand in hand on the plush carpet until sleep overtakes him at last.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>“Oh for fuck’s sake Logan, ENOUGH!”</em>
</p><p>He pulls the phone away from his ear, stung by the shouting on the other end.  “Jackie, I’m—“</p><p><em>“Full of shit, that’s what you are!”</em>  He hears banging and clattering on the other end of the line—she’s probably prepping pots for a catering gig.  <em>“How long have you known Veronica?”</em></p><p>“Since last July.”</p><p>
  <em>“It’s February!  And how often do you see her?”</em>
</p><p>Logan sighs, staring at the Tree of Life painting on his living room wall.  “At least four times a week.”</p><p>Jackie laughs bitterly.  <em>“You see her more than I see my girlfriend, but you’re just friends?  My God, at this rate you two will platonically retire to the old folks’ home together.”</em></p><p>Logan slumps on the couch, glancing around his living room.  A photo of the two of them is on prominent display near his computer—a goofy shot from Carrie’s birthday party two months ago.  Veronica keeps a toothbrush in his bathroom now, since she keeps passing out after movie nights and whining it’s <em>too far</em> <em>to walk home</em>.  They spend a lot of time together—something he’s never minded, since he’s been in love with her for ages. </p><p>“Jackie, she’s never <em>once</em> flirted with me, made a move… Nothing.  I don’t get it.”</p><p>
  <em>“Maybe she thinks you’re the one who’s not interested?  Maybe you’re both idiots in the same holding pattern?  All I know is, every time you two come to a party, all of my friends assume you’re married.”</em>
</p><p>“Fuck off, they don’t!”</p><p>
  <em>“Face it, Echolls.  You either need to make a move or move on.  And what better time than the week of Saint Valentine?”</em>
</p><p>“Valentine’s Day is a holiday invented by greeting card companies—“</p><p>
  <em>“To make people feel like crap.  Yeah.  I’ve heard that one before.  From Veronica.  Will you two just fuck already?”</em>
</p><p>“I hate you.”</p><p>
  <em>“Gotta go make Beef Wellington for a bunch of self-important assholes with a lot of money.  Bye!”</em>
</p><p>Logan ends the call and tosses his phone on the couch in a frustrated huff.  She’s wrong.  She has to be.  There’s no way that Veronica’s been interested all this time and just… waiting on him, right?  She’s assertive, funny, and open with him.  She never hesitates to call him out on his bullshit.  Why would she hold back if she was interested in something more?</p><p>He’s barely hiding his feelings, these days.  How many <em>friendship kisses</em> on the top of the head can a guy get away with?</p><p>“I can’t keep going like this,” he mutters.  “I can’t keep seeing her and pretending I don’t love her.”</p><p>Snatching up his keys, he heads out for a walk.  It’s past four, which means Veronica should be home from work.  She has tomorrow off—a joke about <em>Singles Awareness Day</em>—so she has time to spare.  Time to talk, really talk.</p><p>Maybe it’s his turn to climb her fire escape.</p><p>Her apartment is on the second floor, facing the west.  He’s only visited her twice this way.  Usually, Veronica’s impatient and his reclusiveness means she’s the one knocking on his door or window, beckoning him out into the night.  He climbs the steps slowly, careful not to make a noise.  The element of surprise is always an asset.  She deserves it, after that time she’d caught him roaming his place in his boxers, eating peanut butter from the jar.</p><p>He raises his fist to knock on her window and hesitates.  She’s not alone.</p><p>A man is with her, one he’s never met.  Veronica is laughing, playfully slapping his arm as they talk excitedly in her kitchen.  He is muscular, but lean, perhaps an athlete.  His dark complexion stands in sharp relief to his neatly pressed white shirt.  He’s dressed well, as if he has somewhere to be.</p><p>Logan’s heart sinks as he notices the dress Veronica is wearing.  <em>Is this a date?</em></p><p>“I can’t watch.”</p><p>The man embraces her tightly and Logan flees, down the fire escape, down the street.  Down the block, to the closest pub, where he orders a double of scotch and knocks it back.  His palms are sweating and his stomach is roiling with confusion.</p><p>
  <em>I’m too late.</em>
</p><p>So many nights walking the beach beneath the moon.  So many nights curled up on his couch, watching movies beneath a blanket, laughing at the same jokes.  Lying in the same bed, fighting over the pillows, legs kicking beneath the sheets.</p><p>So many moments to tell her, to bare his heart.  He’s wasted them all.</p><p>His phone vibrates in his pocket and he glances at the display.  <em>Veronica</em>.  What to do? </p><p>He throws down enough cash to cover the drink and hurries outside, answering the call.  “Hey, what’s up?”</p><p>
  <em>“Hey!  Whatcha doing later?”</em>
</p><p>“Not much.  Catching up on work, maybe.  Why?”</p><p>
  <em>“Hmm.  Could you maybe blow that off and find time for dinner at Prohibition?”</em>
</p><p>“Dinner?”</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, that meal we all tend to eat around six.  Please?  I have something really important to talk about, and I feel like truffle mac and cheese pairs well with that.”</em>
</p><p>Logan’s stomach lurches.  Something important, as in a new boyfriend?  Has she been seeing him for some time?  Are they serious?</p><p>
  <em>“Earth to Logan?”</em>
</p><p>“Uh, yeah, sure.  Six.”</p><p>
  <em>“Um, great!  See you tonight!”</em>
</p><p>He makes it to his apartment with the best of intentions:  shower, change, head to the restaurant.  It is when he steps inside, surrounded by the artifacts of a relationship that is but isn’t, that he collapses.  As he slides to the ground beside his door, a tear breaks free, sliding down his cheek.</p><p>If he has to see her at dinner, holding hands with another man, it will break him. </p><p>He’s not angry with her.  She deserves love and joy, and he’s failed by not offering them to her.  But as his heart pounds frantically in his chest, he knows he cannot face a reality where she may never be his to love again.</p><p>He responds like any survivor of trauma:  it’s fight or flight and the time for fighting is past.  Grabbing his keys, Logan flees.</p><p> </p><p><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6D2BUli1vpYY61cBUwLRJU?si=nYT2RR3ASBGejXNqHaL9XA">Story Playlist</a><br/>Minus the incredible Xmas Cake by Rilo Kiley, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3KYOdTZgUg">available here</a></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. I Need Shelter: Veronica</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There are two sides to every story.  Here is Veronica's.</p><p>Flying without a beta because we living wild in Trope-A-Palooza.  This is dangerous when you write at 2am so be kind.</p><p>Quoted lyrics are from Lizzo's "Truth Hurts".</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time she sees him, he is an ocean wave, carrying her to shore.</p><p>She’s been at this party for an hour now, long enough to know that as much as she’s grown to adore Jackie, she just cannot handle this many strangers in a single confined space, even if they are all <em>fun</em> and <em>friendly</em>. </p><p>
  <em>Why the hell am I here?</em>
</p><p>The flat tire.  That’s why.</p><p>
  <em>She’s been in the city for a week when her shitty car decides that no, it can’t wait for two damn paycheques under her belt; it’s going to chew up her meagre savings now.  Her front right tire blows out with a literal bang, sending her careening to the shoulder.  She curses loudly, coaxing the aging Le Baron to a stop and strikes the wheel with both palms.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Fuck you!” she screams, fighting back tears.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Does she have a spare?  Or did she use it last year, when that asshole stabbed her tire for busting him cheating on his wife and invalidating his pre-nup?  No, she definitely used the spare then.  She’s going to have to toss on the donut and pray she can find a shop.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Popping the trunk, she hurriedly throws the door open and rushes back, every step a stomp against the cracked pavement.  She hefts the lid open, and her jaw falls slack.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A brand new tire is in the trunk, with a giant damn bow.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Dad.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of course he’d noticed her lack of spare during the move last week.  He must have snuck this in there the other day when he drove down with her last few boxes.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She makes quick work of hefting the tire onto the road and locating her tools.  She’s got the car jacked up and the old tire off when a cherry red Sonata pulls off the road and parks in front of her.  A statuesque woman slips out of the driver’s side, her dark, tight curls piled high atop her head.  Her grey pinstripe pants and sleeveless cream blouse are perfectly tailored.  She could be a model, Veronica muses—may even be one.  Hollywood isn’t far, after all.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Flat?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“As God made me,” Veronica quips.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The woman laughs heartily, examining the Le Baron’s old tire.  “Nice one.  That blow out, though… what did you hit?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No idea.  A sword?”  Veronica brushes sweat from her brow beneath the midday sun.  “Four weeks from buying a new set of tires, and this.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Need a hand?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Veronica shakes her head.  “I’ve got it, but thanks.  No need to ruin your clothes.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The woman shrugs, reaching for a wrench.  “They’re clothes.  Who gives a shit?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Um, I mean…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m Jackie, by the way.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Veronica.  Are you sure?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jackie rolls her eyes.  “Just roll the tire over here.  Let’s get you back on the road.”</em>
</p><p>Hundreds of cars had passed her that day.  Jackie had stopped.  By fluke, they’d discovered they were neighbours, and that settled it.  Veronica was invited to Jackie’s annual Pride weekend blowout—complete with a complementary make-up session.</p><p>Veronica steals a glance at herself in a nearby mirror and smiles.  She does look amazing today.  The shimmering highlights, the way Jackie managed to make them <em>move</em> with her face…  It makes her feel beautiful for a change.  Surrounded by light, not darkness.</p><p>Maybe she’s too sober.  Maybe she’ll calm down if she has another drink.  <em>I’m not my mother</em>, she tells herself as she pours a margarita from a giant pitcher and takes a sip.  <em>I’ll drink it slowly, with friends.  It’s okay.</em></p><p>“Vee!” Jackie hugs her from behind, reaching for the margarita pitcher.</p><p>“Hey, Jackie!  This is amazing.  How do you do all this?”</p><p>“A few friends, a bossy mouth and maybe a line of coke,” she replies, laughing at Veronica’s shocked response.  “I’m joking!  Oh my God, is that my song?  TURN IT UP!” Jackie Cook shrieks beside her.  “<em>Why are men great ‘til they gotta be great?</em>”</p><p>Veronica giggles as Jackie throws her arm around her shoulders, swaying her side to side as they sing in unison:  “<em>I just took a DNA test, turns out I’m a hundred percent that bitch, even when I’m cryin’ crazy.</em>”</p><p>Jackie flits around the room, holding a microphone to various friends as she belts every line of “Truth Hurts” like she wrote it herself.  Her girlfriend dumped her last week—some horrible excuse that Jackie says is code for <em>I want to fuck as many people as I want during Pride</em>—and her new friend is hurting badly.  Not that she’s let it stop her from throwing the grandest, glittering party Veronica has ever been to.</p><p>Jackie is on the coffee table now, leaning on a tall man with short spiky hair and chocolate brown eyes that Veronica wants to drown in.  He grins as Jackie baits him into a call and response, not missing a beat as they move in sync:  Jackie lunging forward as he backs up; the man surging forward as she leans back, her eyes twinkling with mischief.</p><p><em>“You tried to break my heart?”</em> Jackie sasses him.</p><p><em>“Oh, that breaks my heart, that you thought you ever had it, no you ain’t from the start!”</em> Mystery Man counters with a jut of his hips.</p><p>Jackie, not to be outdone, playfully shoves him back.  <em>“Hey, I'm glad you're back with your bitch.  I mean, who would wanna hide this?”</em></p><p>To Veronica’s surprise, Mystery Man clamps a hand over Jackie’s mouth and steals the next line:  <em>“I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever be your side chick!”</em></p><p>Jackie shrieks with joy as the party erupts in laughter.  She jumps down from the table, hugging him tightly.  Veronica sips her margarita and watches as he leans in and whispers in her ear with a look of… concern?  Checking in, maybe?  Jackie nods and smiles, and he immediately grins, moving away to the fringe of the crowd as Jackie dances off to the kitchen.</p><p><em>He’s not like the others here</em>. </p><p>He moves with forethought, every decision calculated, which means he’s more sober than 90% of the guests crammed into this three-bedroom space.  He speaks to other guests, but not loudly; he chooses people and ushers them close, smiling and listening intently.  In a pulsing crowd of people, packed together in the summer heat, he is a cool breeze. </p><p>And yet, the closer he weaves through the crowd, the more feverish Veronica feels.  She presses the margarita glass to her forehead, finding no relief.  She weaves away from him, towards Jackie’s business partner Parker, a sweet, bubbly blonde she can circle and dance with until she is beside the window.  </p><p>Mystery Man is out of sight, but not out of mind.</p><p>Lizzo is still singing as Veronica hitches the skirt of her dress and steps out onto fire escape to clear her head.  Despite the late-day sun, the breeze brings immediate relief.  She leans against a rail, people watching.  Studying the neighbourhood she now calls home.</p><p>She came here hoping to be lost, longing to find a place where no one knew her name.  She is swiftly realizing how lonely it is to be in a house, not a home.</p><p>She feels him before she sees him:  a prickling on the neck, her skin dancing electric.  Mystery Man.  She glances behind her and he is there, watching her watch the world. </p><p><em>Say something</em>, her brain pleads.  <em>Talk to him!</em></p><p>“Nice shirt.”</p><p>She means it.  She loves his trans rights tee.  Loves that he sang with Jackie even though his voice was a little flat, because he did it <em>for her</em>.  To make her happy.</p><p>He gives the shirt a little tug and smiles at her.   “My holographic dress was dirty from last night.  I made do.”</p><p>“Good thing.  Wearing the same thing as someone else to a Jackie Cook party?  Now <em>that</em> would have been embarrassing!”  On the street below, a fight is brewing, and she shifts over so he can see.  “Want to watch three lesbians eviscerate a drunk homophobe in the street?”</p><p>Her heart skips as his arm brushes hers.  “You’re playing my song.  Logan.”</p><p>“Veronica.  He’s about to get a boot straight up his ass.”</p><p>They watch the argument unfold, Veronica acutely aware of how very close he is standing to her.  She can feel the heat of his skin next to hers, and she finds herself swaying to a formless melody in her head, secretly hoping for contact.</p><p>As one of the women shoos away the homophobe, she grins.  “Bye, asshole!”  Turning sideways, she decides it’s time to learn something about Logan.  “I haven’t seen you before.  Do you live around here?”</p><p>“One floor up,” he replies.  “You?”</p><p>“Second floor, across the street.  Moved in a month ago.” </p><p>“That explains it.  I don’t go out much.”</p><p>That’s not good.  How will she run into him again? </p><p>Leaning against the rail, she forces herself to remain casual.  “Why not?  Work stuff?”</p><p>“No… I guess I just… don’t feel comfortable at parties.”</p><p>“But you’re at one of the biggest parties of the year.”</p><p>Logan thrusts his hands in the pockets of his jeans, smirking.  “Go big or stay home.”</p><p>“So, if I want to hang out with you, I’ve got to throw a huge party?”</p><p>If that’s what she has to do, it’s hopeless.  She’s no good at moving fast, and he doesn’t seem interested in her.  Not how she’s interested in him, anyway. </p><p>“If you want me to show up at a party, it has to be impressive.  Or you have to be Jackie, because she never takes no for an answer.” She notices him glance inside, worrying there’s a Mystery Girlfriend somewhere until she spots Jackie waving in her periphery.  “If you want to spend time with me, insomnia and an adventurous palate will do.”</p><p>“Noted.” </p><p>So, that’s not exactly the answer she wants, as she heads back inside to lick her wounds, but she can deal with what maybe sounds like a booty call… Unless he literally means it?  Is he just… a night owl who likes to grab food?</p><p>
  <em>Well, let’s find out.</em>
</p><p>She slings one leg inside the window and pauses, turning back to him.  “Does adventurous palate apply to booze?  Because I hate drinking alone, and Jackie’s bar is well stocked.”</p><p>“I could drink.”</p><p>She fights the urge to return his grin as he follows her inside, in search of the open bar.</p>
<hr/><p>She’s had his number for two weeks.  She hasn’t called him.</p><p>Jackie would be furious if she knew, especially after she pestered her for a full afternoon over text to get it.  Her friend has her figured out.  She knows she’s got a crush, got it so very bad.  Bad enough that she dragged Logan into the centre of the living room after five shots when “Shut Up And Dance” came on.</p><p>That song makes her so happy.  She couldn’t help it.  But what makes her happier is how Logan had just… gone with it.  He’d twirled her in circles, like in the lower deck Titanic scene, and he’d even sang along. </p><p>Maybe she likes Jackie’s parties now.</p><p>It’s been two weeks, though, and he hasn’t tried to reach her, so clearly, he isn’t interested in her like that.  It hurts, but she gets it.  Without Jackie’s makeup and the gorgeous dress her designer friend had picked for her, she’s just a tiny, plain woman who schleps around in jeans and hoodies.</p><p>
  <em>Call him anyway.</em>
</p><p>She stares at her apartment, picking at the tape on the box beside her.  She still hasn’t finished unpacking.  There’s no point.  She has clothes, toiletries, dishes…  The rest can wait.  In case she can’t handle it here.  In case the city is too much.  In case…</p><p>
  <em>Call him.</em>
</p><p>It’s midnight. </p><p>
  <em>Insomnia and an adventurous palate.</em>
</p><p>Her hand shakes as she compromises and sends a text instead.  Short and to the point.</p><p>
  <em>Hey, it’s Veronica.  From Jackie’s party?</em>
</p><p>She sits her phone down and begins to pace.  He won’t answer.  He’s asleep.  He’s forgotten her.  This is so, so stupid.</p><p>A chime.  She pounces and knocks her phone to the floor in her haste. </p><p>
  <em>Logan:  Hey!  How have you been?</em>
</p><p>Okay, that’s a start.  Generic, though.  He’s definitely forgotten her.</p><p>
  <em>Pretty good.  Busy with work.  Wondering if your offer still stands.</em>
</p><p>That will prove it, she decides.  If he has to ask, he doesn’t remember her at all.  The phone chimes again and she holds her breath as she reads the reply.</p><p>
  <em>Logan:  I know a great place to grab late-night dim sum, if you’re hungry.</em>
</p><p><em>Sounds delicious,</em> she replies quickly.  <em>How long do you need?</em></p><p>She hurries to the bathroom to tidy up her hair and brush her teeth, checking her phone as it chimes. </p><p>
  <em>Logan:  Pick you up on the corner in 15?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>See you soon!</em>
</p><p>Her hands are shaking as she runs a brush through her hair and handles her coffee breath.  <em>I’m seeing him tonight.  </em>She swiped on clear gloss, keeping her look low-key.  <em>It’s not a date, it’s dim sum.  Getting to know you without the noise of forty people and a sound system dim sum.</em></p><p>It didn’t hurt to pay a little attention, though.</p><p>Grabbing her favourite black wrap-around cardigan for warmth, she approves her black lace tank and blue jeans, straps on a pair of motorcycle boots and heads outside.  Logan is already there, leaning against a streetlight.  His arms are casually folded over his chest, his leg propped against the metal pole.  His navy blue sweater and black jeans are relaxed, but flattering.</p><p>“Hi!  You up for a twenty-minute walk?”</p><p>Veronica nods eagerly.  “The weather’s great.  Let’s do it.”</p><p>They fall into comfortable chatter, Logan immediately asking her questions about work (she’d mentioned moving to the city for a placement at a law firm at the party).  It’s not exactly the type of law she was hoping to practice—more corporate than humanitarian—but at least they’re letting her sit in on intake interviews.  Logan mentions that he’s a fundraising and grant-writing consultant for non-profits and she perks up immediately.  It surprises her, given what little she’s pried out of Jackie.</p><p>He’s wealthy, despite the modest apartment he rents in her neighbourhood.  Jackie says it’s because he hates his money.  Veronica senses there’s a lot more to the story, but it’s not her place to ask.  Jackie has also warned her to not ask about his family, which adds to the whole <em>complicated money</em> vibe.</p><p>
  <em>“Just treat him like anyone else.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Why wouldn’t I do that, Jackie?”</em>
</p><p>Logan’s dim sum place is a tiny restaurant that seats twelve, hidden in an alleyway Veronica would never know to venture down.  Despite its obscure location and the late hours, half of the seats are taken.  She’s never had it before, so Logan orders a selection of his favourites for them.</p><p>“I have a shellfish allergy,” he explains as he orders, “so if you like what we try, come back and order the other dishes.  They know me here and are careful to keep shellfish out of the ones I like.”</p><p>Veronica files this information away, just in case she ever wants to cook for him someday.</p><p>They feast on a selection of lotus leaf wraps, BBQ pork buns, dumplings… so many foods, she’ll never remember them all.  Everything is delicious, but the soup dumplings are her favourite:  they’re messy, but filled with a flavourful broth to slurp out before devouring them.</p><p>He won’t let her pay, despite her protests.  “Get the next one,” he tells her. </p><p><em>There will be a next one?</em>  Veronica’s heart soars.</p><p>Silly crush and his incredible good looks aside, Logan puts her at ease.  He’s funny, but not loud or brash.  They share a passion for the non-profit sector and watch the same shows on Netflix (even the subtitled murder mystery ones she enjoys and <em>no one she knows</em> watches them).  While Jackie has been a light in her life since moving here, she’s also an extrovert, brimming with energy.  She’s a powder keg in search of a spark.</p><p>Logan is moonlight.  He is the cool Pacific rolling over her feet on the shoreline.  He grounds her, feels familiar.  Feels like <em>home</em>.</p><p>They take a long way back, Logan pointing out a few of his favourite places:  an independent bookstore that has a great selection of rare books hidden in back; an art school that runs student exhibitions three times a year; a small parkette hidden between two condos.  They pause here when Veronica spots the swings, Logan offering to push her.  His hand on her back is firm, but gentle, nudging her just high enough to feel the breeze ruffle her hair.  She tilts her head back to watch the stars, a strange mix of euphoria and dread filling her mind.</p><p>“Penny for your thoughts?” Logan asks quietly.</p><p>“Just… I don’t know if I can make it here.  This city.  I thought this was what I wanted.  To escape everything I hated about Neptune, but what if everything I hated is inside of me somewhere?  What if the only thing I’ve lost is what makes me… <em>me</em>?”</p><p>Logan stops pushing her, allowing the swing to slow.  “I think... that there’s no running away from what hurts you.  I’ve tried and it doesn’t work, Veronica.  And yeah, the city is huge, but each neighbourhood is its own little sphere, this… microcosm of people as lost and scared as you.  We all just want to survive.  Fuck that, we want to thrive.  To feel more than <em>alone</em> or <em>scared</em>.  Don’t try to make it in the city.  Make it on our block, then go from there.”</p><p>“I do like Jackie,” she admits quietly.  “And you.”</p><p>“See?  That’s two friends already.  More than you had a month ago.”</p><p>He has a point.  She may not be ready to unpack, but she has two people who have called her a friend, and that’s two doors she can knock on.  Two friends she can call when she needs a place to be, when the memories overwhelm her.</p><p>“C’mon, Veronica.  It’s getting cold.”</p><p>His hand takes hers, helping her off the swing.  It lingers, just a moment, and the noise in her head is quieter.  Sweet relief. </p><p>The walk home is quiet, but the good kind.  The kind good friends share.  The stars wink at her knowingly.  <em>Jackie was right</em>, they say.  <em>You should have called sooner</em>.  She leans into him, ever so slightly, and he veers closer.  Magnetic.</p><p>As they approach her building, her mouth is dry.  Shyness stumbles her, trips her tongue.  “Thank you,” she manages.</p><p><em>Thank you for the best night I’ve had since moving here</em>, she thinks.</p><p>“No problem.  I had a great time.  If you ever want to hang, just give me a call, or shoot a text.”</p><p>“Cool.” </p><p>She wants to be casual.  Friendly.  Relaxed.  But fuck it.</p><p>“You know any really good places to get ice cream?”</p><p>Logan grins.  “I might.  We’ll have to drive.  Closes at eleven.  You busy tomorrow?”</p><p>“Too busy for ice cream?  Never.”</p><p>He chuckles softly, hands in his pockets.  “Call me tomorrow.  We’ll plan a time.”</p><p>She says goodnight, torn briefly between a hug and nothing and going with a nudge of her shoulder into his.  A friendly little <em>hey, you</em>.  He seems baffled at first, but pleased, so she takes the win.</p><p>Climbing the stairs to her apartment, she finds herself rubbing her arm, as if to capture that momentary connection, collect it as a keepsake.  Stow it in a shoebox as a souvenir, along with the dim sum ordering slip she’d covertly slipped inside her purse.</p><p>Sentimentality is a secret.  A weakness people exploit in her life.  Her heart cannot bear another wound.</p><p>Placing the menu inside her box beside an empty vial of rainbow glitter body gel, she opens up her laptop and logs into Prying Eyez.  Logan is right:  she can’t outrun what hurts her forever.  Holding her breath, she types in <em>Lianne Reynolds</em> and hits enter…</p>
<hr/><p>She’s having the dream again.</p><p>It’s a simple dream.  Veronica has never been one for elaborate, over the top fantasies.  Connection is what matters to her, and in her dream, it’s what she finds—with Logan.  They curl up on the couch, watching movies like always, only this time, he kisses her softly and strokes her cheek.  Tells her that he thinks she’s beautiful.  Or even better, she’s lying in bed, pulling him on top of her with a hungry need.  His soft voice is whispering her name as he undresses her slowly, telling her he loves her.  That she is all he wants.</p><p>She squeezes her thighs together, savouring the feel of his arm around her.  Safe, protective, shielding her from the world outside.  Driving away the darkness like only he can.  The sunlight peeks through her lashes and she reluctantly lets the dream slip away, opening her eyes to the cold, lonely world—</p><p>
  <em>What the hell?</em>
</p><p>Her eyes are open, but the dream… it’s still happening.  Her ribs are weighted down by the comforting feel of a tanned, muscular arm, in a bed that is <em>not hers</em>.  A slow turn of her head and she is face to face with a lightly snoring Logan.</p><p>
  <em>WHAT IS HAPPENING?</em>
</p><p>With the rush of adrenaline comes clarity:  her disastrous visit with her mother.  The stop at the bar.  Wandering the block for half an hour, until she’d stared up at Logan’s fire escape and known it was the only place to go.  The only place she could feel <em>home</em> without driving drunk to Neptune. </p><p>Oh God, she’d asked to stay over, hadn’t she?  She closes her eyes, wading through rum-soaked memories.  She had asked to stay.  She remembers now.  Logan had offered up his bed, a perfect gentleman willing to take the couch and she’d bullied him into <em>this</em>.</p><p><em>You’re a terrible friend!  You took advantage of him</em>, her mind screams.</p><p><em>But he doesn’t look mad</em>, her heart counters.  <em>Look at him.  He looks… peaceful</em>.</p><p>She watches him sleep for a minute, counts his breaths.  Slow, steady, strong.  She isn’t holding his arm where it is.</p><p><em>I could wake up like this every morning</em>.</p><p>It’s a realization that taints the wonder of the moment.  Because as sweet a refrain as her heart is singing now, she knows this is a stolen moment.  It is no fantasy, no lovers’ embrace.</p><p>
  <em>Logan is a good friend and I was a fucking mess last night.  He took care of me.  That’s what a friend does.</em>
</p><p>She needs to go.  She’s taken far more than she should have ever dared ask of him.  It’s unfair of her, loving him as she does, when he only wants to be friends.  She needs to maintain boundaries and respect him.</p><p>She’s given him so many chances to say something.  To make a move.  To hint that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to their relationship.  She has to accept that he’s never going to feel the same.</p><p>Gingerly, she lifts his arm and slides out of bed.  He grumbles slightly, but doesn’t wake.  Relieved, she strips out of his clothes and back into her own, then heads to his kitchen.  On the refrigerator whiteboard, she leaves a message:</p><p>
  <em>Above and beyond, Logan.  I can never thank you enough.<br/>
(Brunch tomorrow to start?)<br/>
-  V.</em>
</p><p>His t-shirt tucked inside her purse, she hitches her leg up and quietly escapes out his window.</p>
<hr/><p>It starts with a fever.</p><p>It wakes her in the middle of a January night, legs tangling in the sheets as she kicks them off in a frantic search for relief.  Her body is on fire, limbs twitching and damp as she turns over and clutches her pillow to her chest.</p><p>She staggers to the shower at four in the morning, turns it on cool.  Figures it might bring relief.  The vertigo sets in when she tilts her head back to rinse her hair, her vision whirling as her wet palms frantically slap the tiled walls for stability.</p><p>Back to bed, where she texts out of work and closes her eyes.  Noon arrives and she’s awake again, coughing and gasping for air.  Her nose is congested, her chest tight.  Every breath <em>hurts</em>.</p><p>It’s the first time she’s been sick since moving out of the house.  She wants her dad, but he’s two hours away.  She can’t ask him to come that far, but she has nothing for the flu in her apartment.</p><p><em>Jackie</em>.</p><p>She texts her friend, pleading for a favour:  a run to the pharmacy for flu medication and Kleenex.  Too weary to wait for a reply, she rolls over and passes out until the incessant ringing of her phone pulls her from her slumber. </p><p>Her hand reaches out blindly, swiping the screen as she drags the receiver to her ear.  “’Lo?”</p><p>“<em>Veronica?  You don’t sound good at all.</em>”</p><p>“Logan?  No… I’m fi—“  She coughs violently, turning her head away from the phone to spare him.</p><p>“<em>Hey, I’ll be there in ten minutes, alright?  You need anything else besides meds?  Juice, snacks, popsicles… anything?</em>”</p><p>“Not a kid,” she mumbles.  “Wait… No, Jackie… Jackie’s coming.”</p><p>“<em>Jackie told me you were sick and I offered to look after you.  Just hang tight, I’m up the street.</em>”</p><p>She tries to protest but he’s ended the call and she’s sweaty, snotty and apparently expecting company from Logan.  This isn’t good.</p><p>Jackie is easy to manage.  She’s the kind of friend who will bring medicine and maybe a yummy treat from her catering business, check in quick and leave her to her gross misery.  But Logan is too observant.  He has this uncanny way of assembling her thoughts when they’re scattered.  He’s a caretaker, a protector.  He’ll want to hover.</p><p>Five minutes is not enough time to shower, but it’s enough time to change pajama tops and feel less grimy.  By the time Logan knocks, she’s managed to stagger to the foyer.</p><p>Leaning on the wall for support, she croaks through the front door.  “I’m contagious!”</p><p>“I’m aware.  Open up.”</p><p>“I don’t want you to get sick.”  Her voice breaks, the last word a pathetic squeak.  “Just leave it and go.”</p><p>“Veronica, please… Let me take care of you.”</p><p>“No—<em>ohhh….</em>”</p><p>The world is spinning again and she staggers into the wall hard, banging her head.  Logan curses outside the door as she slumps to the floor, rubbing her temple.  She hears a jangling sound, then a click.</p><p>“Veronica?”</p><p>She groans softly, resting her head on her knees as the door swings open slowly.  She opens her mouth to question him but remembers herself:  <em>Jackie</em>.  She has a spare key, one she’s clearly loaned to Logan. </p><p>He kneels beside her, setting aside several bags.  “What happened?”</p><p>“Dizzy… fell into the wall.”</p><p>His hand runs over her scalp lightly, feeling for bumps.  “Shit.  You hit your head?”</p><p>She tries to focus on his face, tries to reassure him with a smile, but he’s a blur.  “Small bang.  No big deal.”</p><p>Logan frowns.  “Nice try.  You’re on concussion watch.  <em>No arguing</em>.”</p><p>He scoops her up in his arms and cradles her to his chest.  She protests weakly, muttering that he’ll get sick, but he ignores her, carrying her back to her bed.  Logan lays her down carefully, adjusting her pillows beneath her head and tucking her in.</p><p>“How much water have you had today?”</p><p>She shrugs.  Between naps, she’d sipped at her glass on the night stand, but it’s not a lot.</p><p>“Alright.  Let’s try and fix that.”</p><p>He disappears for a minute, returning with a package of cold and flu pills and a water bottle with a flip-out straw.  He pops two pills out of the package and passes them with the water.</p><p>“I don’t know about you, but drinking in bed is hard.  This is easier.”</p><p>“You’re gonna get my germs,” she repeats, taking the pills.</p><p>He watches as she takes her medication, waving at her to continue sipping water.  She detects a faint hint of lime juice. </p><p>“I see you practically every day.  You could have been contagious before.  And even if you weren’t, I’m willing to take the risk,” he assures her.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>He is silent for a long moment, sitting on her bed beside her.  <em>I’ve pissed him off somehow</em>.  She desperately wants to reach for his hand, feel the way his fingers perfectly mesh with hers, but she won’t gamble with his safety.</p><p>When at last he answers her, he’s brushing the damp hair from her face and smiling wistfully.</p><p>“Because I care about you.  I don’t have family.  I have Jackie and I have you, which means I will take care of you whenever you need me.”</p><p>The fight goes out of her.  She is his family, as he is hers.  She would be beating down his door to make him chicken soup if the roles were reversed. </p><p>“Thank you,” she croaks.</p><p>“Anytime you need me, Veronica, you call.”  He is stroking her hair and it is so soothing, she forgets how much her throat hurts, forgets how her ribs ache when she breathes in too fast.  “You hungry?”</p><p>“Little.”</p><p>“I brought you my favourite sick food.  I’ll be right back, okay?”</p><p>He is gone for a minute, maybe two, returning with a bowl of steaming soup.  “Pho,” he tells her.  “Bone broth is great for immunity, easy on the stomach when you feel queasy.  Chicken boosts healing, too.”</p><p>She eats half of it, mostly slurping the broth and picking at the chicken.  The noodles are too heavy, but Logan tells her it’s okay—she’s getting the important part down.  He perches beside her, patting her face with a cool, damp cloth as she eats.</p><p>She fights the urge to cry.  He is being too kind.</p><p>The evening passes in fits and starts, blurry images of Logan bringing her juice and checking her temperature between naps.  Sunlight surrenders to moonlight and he is still there, still rubbing her back when she wakes up gasping for air.  He makes her tea with honey at two in the morning when she sounds like Nick Cave, and she sputters her way through “Red Right Hand” as the nighttime flu pills kick in.</p><p>He stays all weekend, sleeping on her couch despite her feeble protests.  Jackie brings homemade chicken soup and gumbo for Logan, leaving it in the hallway with an apology about a wedding rehearsal she can’t risk cancelling on.  By Sunday, she feels well enough to sit up and watch TV, and Logan makes her a bed on the couch.</p><p>“But where will you sit?”</p><p>“I’ll drag a chair from the dining table you clearly never use.”</p><p>Her cheeks burn.  “Why do you say that?”</p><p>“I don’t know, the layer of dust?  The unpacked boxes you have stacked all over them?”</p><p>She’s never finished unpacking.  Come to think of it, this is only the third time Logan’s been in her apartment in the seven months she’s known him.</p><p>“Veronica?  Why haven’t you finished unpacking?”</p><p>She hesitates, fidgeting with the blankets on her lap.  “I don’t know…”</p><p>A lie.  She does know.</p><p>He drags a chair over beside her and sits down, leaning close to her. “Is it because… I mean, are you moving back home when the lease is up?  Or moving away from here?”</p><p>“What?  No, that’s not it.”  His pensive look breaks her heart, because he never sees how important he is:  to his clients, to Jackie, and definitely not to <em>her</em>.  “This is my house, but it’s not a <em>home</em>.  I don’t know why, but… It never feels that way.  But when I met you, I found that.  Your place feels like <em>home</em>.  So I come over there, instead and just… ignore here.  Unpacking doesn’t matter, because <em>here</em> doesn’t matter.  God, that sounds so… weird…”</p><p>“No, not weird,” he insists.  “I get it.  Home isn’t a place.  It’s a feeling.”</p><p>A feeling she has with him. </p><p>“So… what are we watching?  Your choice.”</p><p>“Hmm… <em>Josie And The Pussycats</em>.”</p><p>Logan moves to her DVD shelf, scanning the titles.  “Didn’t we watch it a month ago?”</p><p>“And?  ‘<em>Orange is the new pink!’</em>”</p><p>“<em>The walls are mooshy!’</em>”</p><p>Yet another signal she’d tried to send him:  a movie about two friends, where the girl is hopelessly, secretly in love with the guy and too shy to say so.  She’d made Logan watch it twice now—three times, counting today.  Nothing. </p><p>At least she has Logan’s friendship.  Without him, her heart would be homeless.</p>
<hr/><p>She isn’t expecting the call but when she sees his name on the call display, she ducks into a board room at work and swipes to accept.</p><p>“Wallace?”</p><p>
  <em>“Hey Supafly!  How’s life as a big-shot attorney?”</em>
</p><p>“I’m just a junior associate, but it’s going well.  What’s up?  You’re coming out this weekend, right?  Dad hasn’t shut up about this dinner on Saturday.”</p><p>Wallace hoots over the sounds of car horns and loud chatter.  <em>“Yes, I’m coming.  Which is why we need to talk.  I just got into LAX.  Can I swing by tonight, treat you to dinner?”</em></p><p>She glances at the clock on the wall.  “Um, yeah!  I’m off in twenty.  I clocked overtime this week so I’m out early before my vacation.  You have my address?”</p><p>
  <em>“Got it in my phone.  I’ll see you in, what, an hour?”</em>
</p><p>“Sounds perfect.  See you!”</p><p>The rest of her day is a flurry of last-minute administrative tasks:  handing off files to her co-worker Angie; setting her out of office alerts; wishing everyone a good week.  Purse in hand, she hurries out and floors it on the drive home, curious about what Wallace’s reason for the stop-over.</p><p>They’ve been best friends since high school, ever since the local gang duct taped him to a flagpole for “snitching” to the cops and she’d cut him down without hesitation.  She’d brokered piece by making the evidence tape disappear, and Wallace had become her ally in a sea of self-obsessed sharks.</p><p><em>We’re spending three days together back in Neptune</em>, her brain loops as she drives.  <em>Why does he feel the need to stop before his drive back for dinner?  What’s so urgent?</em></p><p>A terrible thought invades her mind as she signals for the turn onto her street:  <em>is Dad sick?</em></p><p>How Wallace knows and she doesn’t, she isn’t sure.  Maybe his mom, since Alicia has been friends with her Dad (and dating him on and off) for a decade.  Yes, Wallace would stop for that.  He would want her to have time to mentally prepare, to compose herself.  She draws a shaky breath as she pulls into her parking space and steels herself for the worst.</p><p>
  <em>Okay, you don’t know what it is.  Maybe Wallace has news.  Maybe he’s met a girl!</em>
</p><p>Oh, she likes this possibility.  Wallace is the sweetest guy, thoughtful and supportive.  How he’s been single since moving to Chicago to coach that high school basketball team is beyond her.  She focuses on this happy prospect as she heads upstairs to her apartment and changes out of her work clothes into a nice dress.  It’s been four months since she’s seen Wallace and this calls for a celebratory dinner. </p><p>Her choice of a satin dress in royal blue with a sweetheart neckline and a ruffled hemline has nothing to do with the whispering in the back of her head about <em>maybe</em> inviting Logan to dinner. </p><p>A knock on her door sends her scurrying to answer and she opens it with a huge smile.  “Papa Bear!”</p><p>“Supafly!”</p><p>They embrace tightly, Wallace lifting her off the ground.  She squeals excitedly, thumping his back with her fists.</p><p>“Damn, girl!  Did I catch you on date night?”</p><p>“Like you’re not working the pimp juice?” she scoffs, gesturing to his charcoal grey suit.  “I figured if the great Wallace Fennel was taking time to have dinner with me, I’d dress up a little.”</p><p>He shrugs off his suit jacket and lays it over his suitcase.  “Oh Vee, don’t even try and play me.  I’ve known you too long.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Is he coming over tonight?”</p><p>Veronica feels her cheeks flush.  “What?  No!  You and I are going for dinner, right?  Just us?”</p><p>“Mmhmm.  And, if you have your way, you want to invite him along to <em>meet me</em> and see you looking drop-dead gorgeous.”  Wallace shakes his head.  “You still haven’t told him?”</p><p>“It’s complicated, Wallace—“</p><p>“So <em>un-complicate it!</em>”</p><p>She waves him off, heading into the kitchen.  “You want a drink?  I have this amazing grapefruit soda from a shop down the street.”</p><p>“Sure.  Alright, we’ll drop it.  For now.  Besides, we have things to discuss.”</p><p>Veronica retrieves two glasses from the cupboard, ignoring the way her hands shake.  “Good news or bad?”</p><p>“Good, I think?  Just let me tell a story!”</p><p><em>Okay, Dad’s fine, Alicia’s fine.  </em>She can relax.  As she pours, Wallace continues.</p><p>“So, work has been hectic and I was thinking that maybe I might have to bump this weekend off.  You remember from my email, right?”</p><p>Veronica nods, setting the soda aside.  “Yeah.  I told you I’d come to Chicago and drag you home.”</p><p>Wallace whistles low.  “You and my mom both.  Anyway, I was still fussing about work, and mom Skypes last night and tells me I have to get on the plane.  That Saturday is super important.  I say why, it’s just our biannual hang.  And she lets the cat run screaming out of that bag:  a ring.”</p><p>Veronica’s mouth falls open.  <em>A ring… as in…</em></p><p>“I call top bunk!” Wallace teases.</p><p>“Shut up!  They’re finally <em>together</em>?  For good?”</p><p>“I am sworn to secrecy, but no <em>way</em> I was keeping this to myself and Darrell can’t keep a secret to save his life.”</p><p>Veronica shrieks, throwing her arms around Wallace.  “This is amazing!  We’re going to be siblings now.  Did she say if they picked a date?”</p><p>“Sometime this summer.”</p><p>“Whew!”  She steps back, her hands still on his shoulders.  “Your mom has always made my dad so happy.  This is the best news.”</p><p>“Your dad’s a real one, Vee.  I’m proud to have him join the family.  And <em>I guess </em>you’re alright.”</p><p>They jostle each other playfully, retrieving their drinks before settling on the couch.  Talk soon turns to the wedding, and with it, dates.</p><p>“Hear me out,” Wallace begins.  “What if you ask Logan to be your plus one?”</p><p>“To a wedding?  No fucking way!  That screams desperation.”</p><p>“Or maybe it screams, <em>Help, I hate weddings solo, you’re my close friend, come get drunk and dance with me.</em>”  Wallace sits his drink aside and leans in.  “Look, see how he reacts.  If he gets excited, like <em>excited</em>… he’s into you.  And you can stop wishing for it.”</p><p>“He’s not.  I would know by now.”</p><p>“And I’m telling you Vee, that based on everything you’ve told me?  He is.  You’re both too stupid to see it.”</p><p>“So I’m stupid now?” Veronica seethes.</p><p>“Stupid, or scared.  You tell me,” Wallace replies softly.  “Hey, you wanna settle it?  Ask him to dinner.  Let me see him around you.  I’m a guy, right?  I’ll know.”</p><p>“You sure?”</p><p>“Yeah.”  His smile is wide.  “Girl, if you have a shot at something good, you gotta take it.  Call him.”</p><p>Which is how she finds herself calling Logan at quarter to five on a Thursday and asking him out to dinner while wearing a dress that, now she thinks of it, she could wear to a wedding.  This is becoming a practice run for the date she’s hoping he’ll accept and her stomach flutters.  He seems strangely distracted, but agrees to dinner. </p><p>Wallace is right:  she can’t hold this in forever.  She needs to try, one more time.</p>
<hr/><p>Fire escapes are not made for high heels.</p><p>Veronica curses angrily as she yanks off her shoes and pads barefoot up the cold stairs, tears of frustration streaming down her cheeks.  Her coat is in her car and her bare shoulders sting from the February wind, but she doesn’t give a damn right now.</p><p>Logan Echolls stood her up.  <em>He.</em> <em>Stood. Her. Up.</em></p><p>“You… you… asshole!” she mutters through her tears.  “Why?”</p><p>She’s going to get answers, if she has to smash through his window and drag him out of his (super comfortable) king-size bed, because that would be where he would hide, right?  He’s hiding from her.  That weird distracted voice earlier… he was upset.  He was lying, like he did at Christmas.</p><p>
  <em>But WHY?!</em>
</p><p>She reaches his window, and her chest aches:  the apartment is pitch-black.  No sign of life. </p><p>It’s <em>never</em> pitch-black.  Not this early.  Not when he’s home. </p><p>Her fist raps on the window, gently at first, then harder.  “Logan?  Logan, open up.”</p><p>No answer.  Not a sound within. </p><p>She pulls her phone from her bra and dials his number, alarmed when it goes straight to voicemail:  <em>“You’ve reached Logan.  Here is today’s inspirational message: ‘The saddest thing is to be a minute to someone, when you’ve made them your eternity.’  Sanober Khan.  Leave a message.”</em></p><p>She hangs up instead, banging harder on his window.  “Logan?  Come on, I’m worried!”</p><p>Through the grates, a yellow glow appears and the familiar screech of a window.  “He’s not home.”</p><p>“Jackie?”  Veronica leans over the rail and finds their mutual friend dressed in a silk robe, her hair curly and wild in a way that suggests she may have begun celebrating Valentine’s Day early.  “What do you mean he’s not home?”</p><p>From behind Jackie, a brunette peeks out with a short bob, her hair streaked blue.  Veronica recognizes her immediately from last year’s Pride party:  Mac, the IT expert who’d accompanied Parker.  <em>Jackie never told me they kept in touch.  </em></p><p>“He bolted past me a couple hours ago when I was getting on the elevator,” Jackie replies.  “Barely acknowledged my existence.”</p><p>“He was supposed to meet me for dinner at six.  He never showed.”</p><p>Oh, she doesn’t feel good about this.  Had something happened to him?</p><p>Jackie frowns.  “Logan blew you off?  That’s not… He would never do that.  Not without a really good explanation.”</p><p>“If you see him, text me?”</p><p>“Yeah, of course.”</p><p>“I hope you find him,” Mac calls out.</p><p>Veronica hurries down the steps, her shoes dangling in her hand.  <em>Prohibition is a fifteen-minute walk from here.  Logan wouldn’t have taken the car.  Maybe something happened to him on the walk over, like a mugging?</em>  Her breathing is shallow as she hurries around the corner in her bare feet.  <em>I need to change.</em></p><p>There’s no way she’s searching the streets in this outfit.</p><p>She’s so consumed with her thoughts of which route Logan would take to the restaurant, she misses it the first time.  And the second.  But the third time, she hears it:  her name, carried on the wind.</p><p>“Veronica.”</p><p>She glances around, her eyes narrowing as she finds the source:  a disheveled-looking man with messy brown hair and dark eyes, sitting on the fire escape beside her window.  <em>Logan</em>.</p><p>“Where the <em>hell</em> have you been?  And what’s wrong with your phone?”</p><p>“I’m sorry.  I know you must have questions, and—“</p><p>“No, <em>you</em> don’t get to talk yet!” she interrupts, stomping up the stairs.  “You scared me half to death!  Jackie says you haven’t been home, and your phone is off and … I was worried you got mugged, or hurt!”</p><p>“You’re right,” he agrees softly.  “I forgot to charge it.  My phone.”</p><p>She’s standing over him now, her chest heaving with anger and rejection.  “You <em>ditched me</em>.”</p><p>“No.  Well, yes, but not because…”  He shakes his head.  “Will you let me explain?”</p><p>“I’ll let you <em>try</em>.”  He rises to his feet, moves to leave but she blocks his path.  “Oh, no.  Not in there.  <em>Here</em>.  You humiliated me.  You <em>hurt</em> me.  You can explain right here, Logan.  Or start to.  And if I want to keep listening, maybe I let you in.”</p><p>He tugs on his short hair, staring at her intently.  “That’s fair.  You’re right.  I shouldn’t have… I’m not built for this, Veronica.  I’m not built to… lose people.”</p><p>“Lose people?  I… What are you talking about?”</p><p>“I saw you with him.  Okay?  I know your news, because I came over to see you and…”  He bows his head, shaking it slowly.  “You deserve to be happy.  God, it’s all I ever think about.  You, happy.  When you smile, the room lights up, you know that?”</p><p>He saw her?  With… <em>Oh my God.</em>  Veronica doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry or throw her stupid, pinching heels at him.  Maybe all three. </p><p>“You mean Wallace?”</p><p>“Wallace…”  He says his name as if tasting the word, rolling it over his tongue like a wine he’s keen to spit out.  “Yeah.  The guy in the nice suit.  Is he a lawyer at the firm?”</p><p>She laughs.  “Oh my God, Wallace?  He’d rather swim in sewage.  He coaches high school basketball.  In Chicago.”</p><p>He’s still not catching on.  She can see him doing the mental math, perhaps pitying her the long distance arrangement.</p><p>“Logan, Wallace is a <em>friend</em>.  One of my oldest.  He just flew in to visit his mom.  He came by to tell me that his mom and my dad are secretly engaged and telling us Saturday at dinner.”</p><p>One of the things Veronica is adept at in her profession is studying body language during questioning.  As Logan visibly relaxes, she can’t help but remember Wallace’s words and wonders if he’s right.</p><p>
  <em>Has Logan been hiding a secret, too?</em>
</p><p>“What did you think was going to happen at dinner, Logan?”</p><p>He hesitates, shuffling on his feet.  “I thought… I was meeting Wallace.  Your boyfriend.”</p><p>She edges closer, her heart racing with fear and hope. “And why would that be a bad thing?”</p><p>His lip trembles as he whispers, his voice heavy with emotion.  “You know why.” </p><p>“Logan?”</p><p>He tucks her hair behind her ear and she leans into his touch.  The warmth, the softness… she’ll never stop needing it.  He’s spoiled her for any other man.</p><p>“You have to… I keep trying to show you…”</p><p>“Show me one more time,” she pleads.  “Show me now.”</p><p>Between the shadows cast by the streetlights, wrapped in the winter winds, Veronica swears she hears him mumble <em>Fuck it</em> before cradling her cheeks in his hands and pressing his lips to hers.</p><p>It’s soft at first—wary, tentative, like a question.  Grabbing the collar of his jacket, she pulls him closer, her lips parting with a sigh of relief.  Eight months of tension, longing and need spill out as her tongue tangles and teases his.  He walks her backwards, one step, two, then three, until they’re against the red bricks</p><p>He is as hard as them as he pushes himself against her and she moans into his mouth.  Her palms slip around to his back and down, gripping his ass and <em>dear God, the man goes to the gym</em>.  She needs to see this naked.</p><p>The kiss is frantic now:  hands wandering, bodies bumping together roughly.  His hand slips behind her head, protecting her from the wall as the world begins to spin.  <em>This has to be a dream</em>, she worries.  <em>A great one.  The best one.  I’m not waking up until I have to</em>.  Someone on the sidewalk below laughingly yells for them to get a room and they break apart, giggling and embracing.</p><p>Logan leans in beside her ear, speaking softly.  “I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you?”</p><p>“I didn’t think you—“</p><p>She shakes her head.  “I didn’t think <em>you</em>—“</p><p>But she sees it now:  the way his eyes bore deep into her; the way his touch holds reverence.  She sees months of gestures, of little kindnesses and kisses to the top of her head, and she feels foolish.</p><p>He’s been trying to tell her, but she hasn’t been listening. </p><p>“I hear you now,” she tells him.  “Do you hear me?  Because I’ve wanted you since the day we met.”</p><p>“Me, too,” he confesses.  “You have me now.”</p><p>“You have me,” she echoes. </p><p>“Should we go inside?”</p><p>She opens her mouth to agree, then hesitates.  “Your bed is bigger,” she demurs.</p><p>His eyes darken as he reads between the lines, his finger running lightly from her lips down her bare throat to her breasts.  “In that case, let’s go home.”</p><p>She is gossamer light, he insists, as he scoops her up and carries her to his doorstep, balancing her shoes in his hand.  They giggle and steal soft kisses as the elevator ascends the four floors, Veronica nipping at his neck as he fumbles with his house key. </p><p>Clothes fall away as they touch and tease down the hallway:  his shirt hits the wall beside the bathroom; her shoes are thrown somewhere in the living room; his pants pool outside the bedroom.  In the moonlight of his room, he unzips her dress unhurriedly, kissing her tattoo.</p><p>“You’re so beautiful,” he tells her.</p><p>She believes him. </p><p>He is an ocean wave crashing over her as he enters her that first time.  The two of them gasp for air as he hovers, buried deep in her, eyes locked on her face.</p><p>“I love you.”  It spills out of her, her ocean pearl washed ashore at last.</p><p>He collects her treasure, cradling it in his palm.  “I love you, Veronica.”</p><p>Back arches, fingers dance and grip.  She is wound tight, coiling with need as her legs wrap around his waist, drawing him closer, deeper.  Fragments of speech pass between them, but their bodies speak louder.  She rotates her hips up to meet his, drawing a groan from both of them.</p><p>She is at the precipice, ready to fall.  For one moment, she hesitates:  her heart has not been safe with many people in her life.  She pulls his mouth to hers, kissing him once more, and faith renews. </p><p>It has been safe with Logan.  He will be her shelter.  With a whisper in his ear, he picks up his pace and she feels the waves swell, trusts she will ride them out as long as he remains at her side.</p><p>She is a daughter of Neptune.  She surrenders to the sea and finds <em>home</em>.</p><p><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6D2BUli1vpYY61cBUwLRJU?si=nYT2RR3ASBGejXNqHaL9XA">Story Playlist</a><br/>
Minus the incredible Xmas Cake by Rilo Kiley, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3KYOdTZgUg">available here</a></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Out of the pines, and happily ever after.  </p><p>Leave a note and feel free to wander through the Tropes collection linked to this story for more sleepless creations.  Because sleep is for the weak in July.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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